


Til Summer Comes Around

by RPGgirl514



Series: life is a country song [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Ferris Wheels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Music, Kissing in the Rain, Lost Love, Memories, Minnesota, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Sleeping in the Impala (Supernatural), Summer Romance, The Impala (Supernatural), Title from a Country Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: July, 2010. Dean returns to Minnesota and finds work as a ride operator at the county fair, grieving for everyone he's loved and lost.
Relationships: Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester
Series: life is a country song [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/454522
Kudos: 2





	Til Summer Comes Around

**Author's Note:**

> Well, since none of us can actually go to a county fair this year due to COVID-19, I thought I'd finish this fic! It's been sitting on my Google drive half-finished for ages. The actual St. Louis County Fair takes place in Hibbing, which is about an hour and a half northwest of Duluth. For the purposes of this story, I’ve placed it just outside Duluth instead. This is an AU after season 5 in which Dean does NOT spend the summer of 2010 with Lisa. 
> 
> This is the spiritual sequel to [Cop Car](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803848), but it can stand alone. Like the other works in this series, this fic is inspired by the [Keith Urban song](https://youtu.be/lBvTbdQGoV0) of the same name.

“Hey, Townshend! Give me a hand with this, will ya?”

Dean sighed and wiped his hands on a greasy rag before going over to help. “What’s up, man?”

“I can’t get this bulb off; I think it’s the grease caked on that’s glued it in,” Keith said. Dean peered down at the red glass bulb.

“Let me,” he said, pulling his ever-present rag from the back pocket of his jeans and polishing the bulb to a shine. “Got a crescent wrench in there?” Dean gestured at Keith’s battered metal toolbox.

Keith held one up from his crouched position. The veins in Dean’s neck stood out and his biceps tightened against the short sleeves of his t-shirt as he torqued the base of the bulb. With a metallic screech the burnt-out bulb came free. Dean tossed it to Keith. “What d’ya know. Thanks, Townshend.”

Dean shrugged. “No problem. I spent a lot of time fixing up cars with my old man, picked up a few things.”

“Well, then, thank your old man for me.” 

Dean forced a smile. “Yeah. You, uh, just let me know if you need anything else.”

“Right on.” Keith grinned, showing all of his broad yellow teeth.

Keith was a wannabe rocker who had spent most of his youth as a nomad, hitch-hiking between music festivals in the seventies. Now his oily, shoulder-length hair was streaked with gray under the grimy blue bandanna, and most days he wasn’t seen without his knock-off Aviators and an American Spirit dangling from the corner of his mouth, grizzled by a dirty blonde goatee. His appearance spoke of hard living and good times. Dean wondered how long it would take his own lifestyle to catch up with him. He pushed the thought away.

“Hey, once I’m done with this, you wanna grab a beer? I’m buying,” Keith offered.

Dean checked his watch—nearly six.  _ Quittin’ time. _

“Nah, I gotta get home,” Dean said. “Maybe another time.”

“Come on, man, you’ve turned me down ten times now,” Keith protested. “Just one beer, man, come on—” Keith grabbed Dean’s shoulder. Dean wrenched his arm away and stopped just short of punching Keith in the face.

“Fuck off!”

Keith raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, sorry man, it’s cool. I’ll stop asking. But whenever you want to come out of that shell you’re hiding in, it's a standing offer. Just let me know when.”

Dean stalked away, furious—with himself or with Keith, he wasn’t sure. He just needed to get out of there.

He flung his keys on the nightstand and collapsed face first onto the rumpled polyester comforter with a groan.  _ Home sweet home _ , he thought savagely. He’d been in this motel six weeks. He had finally stopped looking at the other bed in those groggy moments after waking, blinking away a phantom as the ache he carried daily settled around his heart.

He had come here, of all places, after Sam had gone into the Pit—as if being closer to  _ her _ , to the charred remains of the Roadhouse, might somehow make up for everything that had happened.  _ God, it was all so fucked up. _

With enormous effort, Dean picked himself up off the bed and opened the mini fridge. He’d stocked up on Sunday (or tried, before he realized liquor stores in Minnesota were closed on Sundays— _ the fuck kind of backwards state is this, anyway? _ —and had to drive across the border to Superior), which meant he still had a bottle and a half of Jack Daniels and half a case of beer left. Dean grabbed a can of beer on autopilot and eyed up the remains of his Chinese takeout from the day before. He was surprised he’d even had the presence of mind to refrigerate the leftovers. With a resigned sniff, Dean supposed he’d better eat something. He didn’t even bother to warm up the lo mein; he ate it cold without tasting it.

Dean turned on the TV. Even after the show had ended, Dean couldn’t remember what had been on. He tipped the bottle of Jack to his mouth and realized it was empty. He debated whether to crack open the other bottle or call it a night.

He fell into a fitful sleep. Thanks to the whiskey, he didn’t dream.

* * *

The county fair kicked off that Wednesday. The flyers posted in the supermarket and hardware store in town had been advertising it for weeks.

Dean ran the Ferris wheel, long days under the summer sun, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat and sunscreen, the machinery whirring methodically as he repeated rote warnings into the PA system. “Please keep hands and feet within the ride at all times and enjoy your night at the St. Louis County Fair.”

It was dull work, and unfortunately gave him plenty of time to think—about Cas and Sam, and everyone else he’d ever let down. More than anyone, though, he thought of Jo. The smell of popcorn, cotton candy and beer permeated his senses day in and day out, saturating his clothes. The repetitive calliope strains of the carousel brought him back to three summers ago, on these very fairgrounds.

_ Dean and Sam had dropped by the roadhouse in between cases, and Jo had flung herself into his arms. “We’re going to the fair,” she’d announced, “and you can use that hunter marksmanship to win me a stuffed bear.” _

_ Dean had more than willingly hopped into the passenger’s seat of Jo’s Chevy as they made the trip to the fairgrounds, belting out Ween along with the cassette tape. Dean roamed the midway with her for hours, hand in hand. _

_ He had even made a perfect score at the shooting booth. The carny working the game said he’d never seen anything like it. As a result, Dean had won a stuffed beaver for Jo, whispering progressively filthier jokes about it into her ear for the rest of the day. Each time Jo would punch his arm and snicker. Dean relished those smiles. He wondered where the unfortunate plushie had ended up. Probably burned along with the roadhouse. _

_ Dean clung to the memory of that perfect day, that remnant of normalcy. This was what normal couples did: they went on normal dates, shared pronto pups and rode the Ferris wheel together, stealing kisses at the top as they looked out over the lights of Duluth and the shimmering black expanse of Lake Superior. _

_ She smelled bitter from the bug repellent rubbed into her smooth, tanned skin. He could taste the lemony, yeasty flavor of shandy on her lips. _

_ “Don’t become a hunter, Jo,” he said suddenly. _

_ “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she said playfully, but there was a bite underneath it. _

_ “I mean it,” he said. “I don’t want you to get hurt. No hunter in their right mind would want this life for the people they care about.” _

_ “Drop it, Dean,” she said. She sounded tired, and for once she looked older than she was, even older than Dean felt. “I just want to have a good time tonight, alright? Before it all goes to shit.” _

_ And so he dropped it, because he wanted the same thing, too—a little piece of heaven, before hell intervened. _

_ “Look!” Jo said, gripping his arm. “Fireflies.” _

_ Dean watched them for a moment, flashing in the dark like miniature comets, burning out as quickly as they had come. Like his relationship with Jo: doomed to fizzle out. _

_ They didn’t speak again until they had their legs under them once more, wobbling away from the Ferris wheel. The sun had set over an hour ago, but the night was heavy with an oppressive, tense heat. _

_ “I’ll come back, Jo,” Dean said. “I swear.” _

_ “I don’t believe hunter promises anymore,” Jo said indifferently. She softened. “But maybe I’ll keep an eye out for you anyways.” _

_ The thunderstorm rumbled in just as they departed the fairgrounds. It began to pour, rain snapping against the Chevy’s windshield in sheets, and it was clear the truck’s wipers were not up to the task. _

_ “Pull over,” Dean urged. “We’ll just wait out the worst of it. I’m in no hurry.” _

_ They rolled to a stop under a bridge and Jo put the truck in park, leaving the headlights on. “Come on!” she said, and got out of the truck. _

_ “Are you crazy?” Dean laughed. And because everything about Jo was infectious, he joined her in the downpour. _

_ Jo grabbed both his hands in hers, giggling madly, spinning them both around in the gleam of the headlights. Their clothes were soaked through in seconds. Dean felt rainwater dripping into his eyes, but he didn’t care. Jo was all that mattered at the moment. He pulled her in, intoxicated by the sparkle in her eyes. _

_ “Kiss me like the Fourth of July, Dean.” _

_ His mouth slid against hers, slick with rain. A flash of lightning seared across their eyelids, closed against the rain. Jo shivered. Dean held her tighter, feeling the beat of her heart as thunder reverberated through them both. _

_ “I’ll be back again, baby,” he said in her ear. _

_ “I’ll be counting the days,” Jo breathed. _

Lost in memories of the good old days, Dean didn’t notice when Keith came jogging up on his break until he was at the base of the ride, out of breath.  _ Probably from all those cigarettes,  _ Dean thought. He could use one himself right about now.

“Dean, hey,” Keith said. He rubbed his stubbled jaw and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, man. There’s lots of folks here who are runnin’ away from something, or got secrets. I just didn’t know you were one of them. Sorry.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s fine.” He wasn't going to give the old bastard the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

* * *

Dean parked up as close to the rocky beach as he could. It was late, past midnight; he should have just gone to bed, but it’s not like he slept much these days anyway. He killed the Impala’s lights and let his eyes adjust to the inky blackness of the water, with just the silver of the moon reflecting off the choppy waves for light. He took a pull from the bottle under the seat without tasting it — he only felt the burn. He stowed it back under the seat and stepped out of the car.

He kicked off his shoes and rolled up the cuffs of his dark jeans, the weathered wood of the boardwalk rough under his feet. He closed his eyes, the only sounds the scraping of his calloused soles against the boards and the whisper of the waves. Throughout his nomadic life Dean had seen both oceans and dozens of lakes, but these were the Great Lakes for a reason—the water stretched as far as his eye could see, even on a clear night, and this was the greatest lake of them all.

When Dean reached the end of the boardwalk he sat on the edge, the cold spray numbing his toes. Even in the middle of a humid Minnesota summer, Lake Superior was a frigid bitch.

“You there, Cas?” he asked finally, his voice a croak in the night air. “Hell, sometimes it feels like I’m talking to myself. Pretty sure I actually am, now."

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “I’m it, Cas. I’m the only one left. I never expected to survive this. Sometimes, I wish you’d just left me there, in Hell. I deserved it. More than you, more than Sammy. And we should have never gotten Adam mixed up in all this bullshit.”

The words were pouring out of him, like demon smoke issuing from a captive vessel. His eyes and throat burned.

“I’m sorry,” he said to no one. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his fingertips hard against his closed eyelids until stars popped against their black backdrop. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

No one heard him, and the only reply was the roar of the waves.

Dean didn’t remember stumbling back to the Impala. He woke up to a sharp  _ tap-tap-tap _ on the window and a blinding light in his face. He flung up his hands, wincing, and caught the gleam of a badge.  _ Fuck. _

Dean rolled the window down. “Sorry, officer,” he groaned. “Long day. Lost track of time. I must’ve fallen asleep, but I’ll clear out now.”

“License and proof of insurance?”

Dean sighed. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. He shifted his foot slightly, making sure the bottle of Jack was safely stowed under the driver’s seat. It would be the cherry on top of this shit sundae of a year, to get a fucking citation for an open container when he wasn’t even drunk enough to earn it.

“Hang on,” the officer said suddenly, and Dean froze. “I know you. Jo’s friend. Uncased firearm.”

Just his luck. He was gonna have to Fourth Amendment this howdy-doody motherfucker, because there was no way Dean was going to let him see the pentagram sigil and veritable arsenal in the trunk. Dean plastered on his most winning smile and squinted at the officer’s name tag. “Deputy Wiles, wasn’t it? Hey, I really appreciate you giving me a break on this. Tell you what, if you come out to the fair tomorrow, I’ll give you a ride on the Ferris wheel for free. Bring your sweetheart.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Ferris wheel’s a real hit with the chicks.”

“You’re working at the fair?”

“Yeah, I came back after . . . after,” Dean swallowed hard.

“I was real sorry to hear about Jo and Ellen. Terrible what happened. Gas explosion in Missouri, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Dean said, his voice cracking. He should’ve won an Oscar for the show he was putting on, but he didn’t even have to pretend anymore.

“Shucks, I didn’t mean to dredge all that up again,” Deputy Wiles said. “You been drinking tonight?”

Dean shook his head, wondering what time it was, and if the pull of whiskey he’d taken near midnight was still on his breath. Deputy Wiles stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

“Look, I’m gonna clear this advised, alright? Park closes at ten. Get on back to wherever you’re staying. I’ll even give you an escort.” Deputy Wiles slapped the car door twice and retreated back to his squad. Dean let out the breath he’d been holding and put the Impala in gear. Wiles followed him straight back to the motel.  _ Slow night, _ Dean thought as he let himself into his room. Peeking through a gap in the floral-patterned curtains, he watched the squad peel out of the parking lot before collapsing on the unmade bed and allowing sleep to take him once more.

* * *

Sunday brought with it an overcast gloom and chill drizzle to match Dean’s melancholy. Dean picked his way through the midway, kicking discarded beer cans out of his path and crushing sodden french fries under the heel of his work boot. He’d spent most of the morning shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the crew, packing up the Ferris wheel. No one had seemed to care where he went after the job was done. The others vanished into the mist like bedraggled rats fleeing into the sewers. Dean thought he might as well follow them to South Dakota once everything was loaded up. But first, he’d have to make amends.

He found Keith strapping down a Zipper car to an eighteen wheeler, grunting with exertion. The frame had already been secured on the flat-bed trailer, but several of the brightly-lacquered metal capsules were still strewn in the muddy grass nearby.

“Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah, man, what’s up?”

“Need help?”

“Sure, if you’re offering.”

Dean pulled on his leather gloves and hefted one of the metal cars. Between the two of them, they were able to pack up the rest of the Zipper in ten minutes.

“Thanks for the help, Townshend,” Keith said, wiping sweat and rain from his face with his grubby bandanna. “I’m gettin’ old and slow.”

“No problem.”

Keith glanced over at him. “You okay?” 

Dean stuffed both hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. “I think I’ll take you up on that beer, now.”

Keith’s grin lit up his face like fireworks on the fourth of July. “Of course, man! You a Miller guy? Or—no, no, don’t tell me—Coors Light, am I right? Silver bullet? Let me tell you, man, you haven’t  _ lived  _ until you’ve tried Nordeast. It’s a fuckin’ Minnesota treasure, I swear.”

Dean smiled for the first time since that terrible day in May when Lucifer had taken both his brothers from him.  _ This _ was the reason why they had stopped the apocalypse. For people with a zest for life, like Keith. For the possibility of love, even love lost, like Jo. And for hope, however small, that he might see Sam or Cas again.


End file.
